“Rubbish! You know you like Millicent.”
“Dear madam, I like all ladies—as a garden of flowers, yet I cannot bring myself to pluck one.”
“Then why do you sigh for ten years back?”
That is the worst of women—they have a way of being suddenly logical when no one expects it of them. Mrs. Loring is a charming woman, but I must be careful. One or two lapses into sentiment like this, and she will have me married to Miss Dixon before I know where I am. But my weakness was over. I pulled myself together.
A burning white spot of sunshine had been slowly crossing the floor in my direction, had mounted the sofa, and was threatening to disturb my repose. It brought back the hot streets and the stifling club, and was invading my sanctuary with vivid glare. I was moving along out of its way when a bell rang.
“Oh! and the tea’s cold!” said Mrs. Loring, with the first thought of a hostess. “I’ll have to get some more in.”
Miss Millicent Dixon entered unannounced.
“My Dear Molly,” cried Miss Dixon, “if you love me, give me some tea. How do you do, Mr. Butterfield? Do you know, Moll, I have been rushing about for two mortal hours trying to find a wedding present for Madge Beaumont, and I haven’t got one! Do help me—Mr. Butterfield——”
“Oh, don’t ask him,” Mrs. Loring struck in; “Mr. Butterfield’s been getting sentimental. Between ourselves, Millie, he came dangerously near to a lucid interval. He’s been sighing over a misspent life, and wishing he were years younger.”
“Is it announced yet, Mr. Butterfield?” inquired Millicent mischievously. “Who is she?”